What Happened One Night
by bingblot
Summary: "She should have gotten drunk and crawled into his lap ages ago. What had she been thinking? She would just have to make up for it now." A smutty AU post-ep for "The Limey."
1. Chapter 1

Disclaimer: All things "Castle" belong to ABC.

Author's Note: For mobazan27, who requested smut and has been waiting patiently for this. A smutty, AU post-ep for 4x20 "The Limey" (and it is definitely smut so if that's not your thing, better stop reading now.).

 **What Happened One Night**

 _Chapter 1_

Kate stumbled getting out of the cab and only saved herself from falling by grabbing the taxi door. Whoa, okay, maybe better not try to move so fast. She gripped the door as she waited for the world to stop sloshing around her like water.

It took a minute until the sound of a car horn jolted her and she took a tentative step forward, releasing the door when the ground only seemed to tilt a little. She could do this. One foot in front of the other.

She looked up and—oh. Recognition broke through her alcohol-soaked brain. This wasn't her apartment. This was the loft. Castle. She didn't remember deciding to come here. But she was oddly not surprised either. Of course she was here, she always wanted to be where Castle was. And she fuzzily remembered thinking that she wanted to find out what was wrong. Wanted her Castle back.

She hit her foot on the door clumsily as she entered the building, waving off the doorman.

"Evening, Detective Beckett," he greeted her.

"Hi." She wasn't confident in her tongue's ability to pronounce Eduardo's name so she left her greeting at that.

Hmm. She was beginning to think that extra drink—or two or had it been three?—she'd downed after Colin had left to go to the airport had been a mistake. She hadn't planned to drink so much, let alone actually get drunk at all (she almost never drank so much) but Colin had asked what was going on between her and Castle and she'd answered automatically, as she usually did, "It's complicated," only for the word to come back and hit her in the chest. Complicated—which wasn't what Castle wanted, wasn't what he thought he needed in his life. And again, just as it had when Castle had first said that to her, the thought had made her reel with pain, hurt almost blinding her.

So she had finished her drink and after Colin had left, remained and ordered another drink. And another. The alcohol had made things better, or at least, fuzzier. Fuzzy was better than the sharp stab of hurt. Made her feel more… uncomplicated or something. Less broken.

(In some tiny, mostly unacknowledged corner of her mind, she knew full well that it was only a temporary fix that wouldn't actually help but it was a momentary reprieve and she wanted that.)

She was just so tired, tired of hurting, tired of hiding the way she felt, tired of standing up on her own—and the way the ground persisted in tilting wasn't helping. The floor was moving—wait, no, it was the elevator. How hadn't she realized before that elevators were dizzying?

She wanted… Castle. Yeah, Castle would help. He made everything better.

The elevator stopped and Kate stepped out gratefully. The floor still seemed a little uneven but it wasn't otherwise moving. And now she was here. Could see the door. His door.

She made her way to it, ending up leaning against the wall as she hit the door with her knuckles. Once started, she couldn't quite figure out how to stop the movement of her arm so she kept on knocking, finding the rhythm weirdly steadying.

The door swung open, startling her, and she pitched forward, her somewhat precarious balance teetering, landing on a shoulder. His shoulder.

"Beckett!"

She let out a little sigh. "Castle," she mumbled against his shirt, her nose nudging the skin of his neck. Something seemed to unravel inside her. He was so… cozy was the word her fuzzy brain supplied. And he smelled nice.

"Beckett, you—are you drunk?"

Hmm, had she said that aloud? Maybe. She couldn't remember clearly.

She felt hands grip her elbows and push her away, maneuvering her upright. She blinked at him, tall and broad and handsome and—scowling at her.

The thunder clouds on his expression hit her like a slap. No, this wasn't her Castle. Her Castle didn't frown like this. Not at her. "Miss you, Castle." She wanted her Castle back, the one who loved her.

He sighed. "Yeah, you're very drunk. Come on, Beckett." Then he was leading her across the room to the couch and gently lowering her onto it. His voice sounded hard—not what she was used to—but his hands were still gentle. He touched her as if he cared. Touched her the way her Castle would—had.

But then he released her, straightening up. No, no, she didn't want him to go. She wanted him back.

She grabbed his hand and tugged. He lost his balance and fell ungracefully onto the couch beside her, almost face-planting on the back of the couch, his shoulder hitting the couch instead.

"Beckett!"

Her hands reached for him again as she canted into him, seeking the warmth of his body, the comfort of his closeness. "I miss you, Castle," she mewled. Mm, his shirt was soft…

"I'm right here," he muttered, righting himself on the couch and trying to dislodge her.

"No, not you. I miss my you," she corrected him. She resisted his attempt to move away. She wanted him close, wanted his touch that made her think her Castle was still here, wasn't gone.

"Beckett, will you stop!" His voice rang out like a crack of a whip and he tore himself away, pushing to his feet.

She stared at him, his raised voice, the controlled anger of his movement, acting like a splash of cold water, some sobriety breaking through her liquor haze. And with it came the memory of the thing―one of the things—he'd drunk to forget, dim the memory of. And the understanding of why he didn't want to be near her.

The blonde. The fun, uncomplicated one. He was… with her. And Castle didn't cheat.

She'd lost him. Would never have her Castle again.

To her horror, she felt tears well in her eyes, a sob escaping her of its own volition. She choked, tried to find words. "You—you're with… her now. I get it. I do," she managed to say. She was too broken and he'd moved on. She'd lost her Castle. She couldn't think beyond that, couldn't plan, didn't know what to do now. And it _hurt_ —oh god, it hurt worse than any physical pain she'd ever felt—and worse, it seemed like heartbreak was sobering her up. Not that there was enough alcohol in the world to make the idea of Castle not loving her anymore less than excruciating.

He sighed and ran both hands through his hair in frustration, leaving his hair messy. Adorable, her fuzzy mind supplied—and she flinched, shoving the thought away. Couldn't think like that anymore.

He returned to the couch, dropping heavily down beside her. "There's no one. I'm not with anyone, Beckett. I just… can't do this."

She blinked. He sounded sad. Why did he sound sad? Maybe she was still drunker than she thought because she didn't understand. He couldn't do what? Couldn't be near her anymore? "You don't want me anymore," she guessed dully. She wished she was drunker. Wasn't drunk enough to face this.

He gave a crack of laughter that sounded harsh to her ears. "Are you joking? No, I forgot, you're drunk," he corrected himself. "It's not that. It's that _you_ don't want _me._ "

What? She gaped at him, her not-quite-sober brain not processing his words for a moment. They just made no sense. Not want him—what kind of insanity was that? She felt as if she'd spent the last four years in a fever of wanting him, even if she hadn't always wanted to want him.

He sighed. "Come on, Beckett. I'll call you a car to take you home." He reached over to grab his phone.

No, no, she couldn't let him. Wouldn't leave now. She surged forward but wasn't coordinated enough and ended up toppling forward, landing half-sprawled over him, her nose pressed against his chest.

He gave a grunt of surprise but before he could react further—or push her away—she grabbed for his shoulders, trying to pull herself up. "No, no," she found herself saying as she tried awkwardly to find her balance, ending up somewhat precariously straddling his lap.

"Beckett," he choked, his entire body going stiff beneath her.

She pressed her nose against his neck, grasping his shoulders. "No," she said again dumbly. "I want you. Always wanted you." How did he not know? She needed to make him understand.

He made a strangled sound, his Adam's apple bobbing as he swallowed, and on unthinking impulse, she nuzzled the soft skin of his neck. He smelled nice. Felt good. She darted her tongue out. He tasted even better.

Deep inside her, something seemed to soften, melt, like butter on a hot stove, making her feel warm and liquid, loose and wanting.

"Beckett—are you—what are you doing?" he choked.

"Showing you I want you." Because she did. She really really did. He was so warm and solid and—her hands were eagerly exploring—his chest felt amazing. She should have gotten drunk and crawled into his lap ages ago. What had she been thinking? Never mind. She could make up for it now.

She found the hem of his shirt and pushed it up to bare his chest. Mm, geez, she wished she'd known his button-downs were hiding a chest like this, broad and muscled and just toned enough. Her fingers traced his pectorals, circled his flat male nipples.

He groaned. "Beck—Kate. Kate," he gasped, grasping one of her wrists. The sound of her first name somehow sent a fresh wave of heat spilling through her. She liked it when he called her by her first name. "Wait. You—we can't. You're drunk."

She nuzzled his neck again, kissed the little hollow of his throat. "Not that drunk."

"Kate, are you sure?"

He was wavering, his resistance weakening. She could hear it in his voice, in the huskiness he couldn't hide. And she could feel the lust pulsing through his body.

If he needed more convincing… She let her other hand, the one he wasn't holding captive, slide down his chest to his stomach and lower still to the growing hardness in his pajama bottoms. Oh. Oh wow, he was… big.

"You want me," was her inane response, her fingers tracing, learning, the shape of him. Her mouth was dry with lust, molten heat erupting low in her belly.

He gave a choked laugh, his fingers slackening his grip on her wrist. "My not wanting you has never been the problem."

What had been their problem? She couldn't remember and at the moment, it didn't seem to matter. He wanted her and she wanted him. What more did she need?

She touched her lips to his chin, faintly rough with evening stubble, leaving a string of kisses along his jaw and down his neck, pressing her lips to his throat and then lower to his chest, her tongue flicking out against his nipple, making him jerk and groan. She smiled and wicked impulse—wanting—had her sliding off his lap and onto her knees on the floor.

Her hands fumbled for the waistband of his sweatpants, managing to shove it down to his hips only to get caught there since he was still seated.

"Castle, let me," she almost whined.

"Kate," he gasped. "Tell me—tell me this isn't a one-time thing."

How could he not understand yet? She leaned forward to kiss his stomach, her tongue tracing the faint line of his abdominal muscles, delighting in the way the muscles tensed and jumped at her touch. "No, Castle, this is everything. You're everything."

He gave in with a groan and shifted his hips, allowing her to push his pajama pants and his boxers down over his hips, finally—oh, finally—baring him to her gaze.

She was about to have sex with Castle. The thought—belated as it was—seemed to finish the job as more sobriety returned to her. This was Castle. And she was done waiting. She just _wanted_.

She wrapped her hand around him, stroked him, measuring his length with her fingers. He groaned.

She bent forward and licked him, tasting him for real, and then she took him in her mouth. He panted, his hands curling into fists.

A thrill went through her at being able to do this to him, knowing, feeling, how much he wanted her and she set out to explore, learn exactly how to lick and suck and curl her tongue around him to make him moan and choke out her name. Make him lose control.

"Kate, Kate, oh god, oh god…" he chanted, the words spilling from him in an incoherent litany. She hummed in encouragement and as if that was all he'd needed, he exploded, his hips jerking convulsively.

She cut her gaze up to watch his face, his expression, and felt a rush of emotion—lust and possessiveness and yearning. She wanted to be the only person who would ever get to see him like this, at this peak of bodily pleasure, in this supreme moment of vulnerability. Wanted to be the only one who could reduce him to this.

He collapsed back onto the couch, panting, and she waited until he opened his eyes to look at her, his eyes hazy and midnight blue with lust and something deeper, stronger, than that.

He blinked. "Oh my god, Kate." His voice was low, husky in a way she'd never heard it before. She loved it.

"That was amazing," the words spilled from her.

A brief breathless laugh escaped him. "I think that's my line." He paused. "You're still dressed."

Oh right. She was, abruptly becoming conscious of the moisture undoubtedly ruining her underwear. She'd forgotten... or something.

She felt a smile curve her lips. "You wanna do something about it?"

He let out another little laugh and then he was pulling her towards him or she was surging towards him—or both, she wasn't sure and what did it matter. What mattered was that she was in his arms and then he was kissing her, kissing her deep and hard and it was just like it had been in a dark alley more than a year ago, only better. Because this time they didn't need to stop. They were never going to stop kissing, she decided fuzzily.

And then her thoughts were interrupted as he stood up, bringing her with him, his hands cupping her butt. She gasped and gave a breathless little half-laugh and wrapped her arms around his neck and held on.

She wasn't exactly thinking clearly and so she was somehow a little surprised when she felt softness at her back and realized he had lowered her onto his bed.

He crawled up after her, cupping her cheek with a gentle hand. "Kate, you aren't going to regret this in the morning, are you?" Oh, yes, he was her Castle again, the one who loved her.

The only thing she would regret was making this man—this dear, good man—wait for so long, making him doubt her.

She met his eyes. "Make love to me, Castle."

His expression changed in an odd, heady mix of awe and lust—and then he proceeded to do just that. Oh god, he really did.

His hands were deft and efficient as he stripped her of her shirt and she momentarily forgot how to breathe as he carefully slid her necklace up and over her head. He handled the chain with her mother's ring on it as reverently as if it were a priceless and fragile relic as he placed it on the nightstand and if she'd had any doubt about her feelings for him (she hadn't), they would have vanished completely. He peeled her pants off her and then her underwear, while she undid her bra, and then she was finally naked, every inch of her skin prickling with heat and lust, this burning awareness of his gaze. She vaguely heard him draw a sharp breath as he paused and just stared at her.

A hot wash of heat swept through her, her body shifting involuntarily, as she made a sound like a moan. "Touch me, Castle." Please, oh please, she wanted him to touch her with his hands and not just his eyes.

He moved back up until he was lying beside her, his eyes fixed on her chest, and she felt a smirk curve her lips, the thought flitting through her mind that if he wasn't going to touch her, she could certainly touch herself—but then she belatedly realized where his gaze was really focused. Her scar. The puckered little knot of hardened scar tissue between her breasts. The mark that had killed her. Paired with the companion scar along her side that had brought her back to life.

Oh. Shit. She'd forgotten. For once, she'd really and truly forgotten. She froze and then squirmed, not with arousal this time but with self-consciousness. How could she have forgotten the ugly marks marring her skin?

Her hand lifted, hovered, in a belated (and futile) attempt at covering the scar but as if her movement jolted him out of his trance, he grasped her hand, held it against the mattress. "Kate," he breathed. "You're so beautiful." As if to ensure she understood, he released his grip on her hand to flatten his hand along her side, covering the surgical scar, caressing it, and bent to press his lips to the scar between her breasts.

And then he crawled back up over her body to press another kiss that was more tender than passionate to her lips—or at least, it started out that way. But she parted her lips and the kiss deepened from there as he took possession of her mouth, the slick of his tongue against hers slow and sensual.

His hand slid up her side in a slow glide until he cupped her breast and she gasped, arching into his touch— _oh yes please Castle_.

She was already panting, impatient, her skin burning, arousal streaking white-hot through her veins, but he took his time. Oh god, did he take his torturous time, slow and thorough and oh so good as he stroked and caressed every inch of her, his fingers pausing to lightly pinch her taut nipples. His lips followed where his hands led, tracing a delicate, erotic line of kisses down her chest, laving his tongue over her over-sensitized nipples, making her gasp and then cry out.

She felt his smile against her skin—a very masculine, smug smile—she could sense that even without seeing it. "Ssh, Kate," he hummed, his voice somehow sliding over her skin like another caress, tickling her nerve endings, "Alexis is asleep upstairs."

He paused in his ministrations for just long enough for the words to penetrate her lust-clouded mind—although the pause only managed to ratchet up the spiraling tension in her body.

"Castle, please," she gasped.

She felt his lips curve again against her skin and then his hand slid around the curve of her hip and over her thigh, her legs parting in automatic invitation, an invitation which he accepted, his hand cupping the center of her. Her hips rocked into his hand, encouraging as he touched, caressed, explored. She was panting, trembling, _wanting_ —and then he replaced his hand with his mouth and the world just went white, her vision blurring as everything narrowed down to him, to the touch of his lips and his tongue and _oh oh god_ was that his teeth—and the coiling tension snapped, flinging her into mindless bliss.

When she finally drifted back to reality, it was to find him looking at her as if he never wanted to look at anything else, and he bent and kissed her again, allowing her to taste herself in his mouth, and she moaned a little in the back of her throat, her hands clutching desperately at the solid muscles of his shoulders.

Her hips arched towards him as she tried to tug him where she wanted him to be—where he belonged—but he resisted. Dammit, Castle…

"Castle."

"Are you… okay?"

She'd be fine, better than fine, if he would just cooperate but then, belatedly, her mind realized what he meant, was asking.

"I'm clean—and safe."

Her hips shifted and he settled in the cove of her body and her eyes almost rolled back in her head from the delicious tantalizing feel of him so close but not quite where she wanted him. "Please, Castle."

And then she felt him finally, finally slide into her and had to gasp for breath because he was… perfect, filling her and it had been so many years of lust and wanting and love and oh oh oh, why hadn't they done this sooner?

She was vaguely aware of hearing him groan against her shoulder, choking out her name, but then her hips were rolling against his and he was thrusting and she forgot everything else, lost all awareness beyond the feel of him, so hot and strong and solid and _oh god yes just like that Castle…_

She slumped back onto the mattress and he wasn't far behind, his hips jerking as he groaned something that might have been her name into her shoulder and then collapsed on top of her. He only lay there for a minute though before smudging a kiss to her temple and then heaving himself off her, rolling onto his back with a groan.

"That was…" he finally panted after a long moment.

"Mm yeah," she agreed on a breathy sigh and shifted closer to him, tucking herself against his side and he wrapped an arm around her.

She felt sleepiness crashing over her, tugging her under, and was only peripherally aware of him pressing a kiss to her hair as he cuddled her into his warmth.

Mm… She felt warm and sated and happy and didn't try to fight the exhaustion, only snuggled closer. "Love 'ou," she mumbled and then she was asleep.

* * *

 _A/N 2: Mobazan27, I hope this satisfied and was worth the wait._

 _Inspired by an old prompt I saw: drunk Beckett, sober Castle, and Beckett gets handsy when she's been drinking._

 _Thank you all for reading._


	2. Chapter 2

Author's Note: This fic was initially intended to be a one-shot but Castle got into my head and insisted on having his say, so he's to blame for this second chapter. And with more smut too, for Mobazan27.

 **What Happened One Night**

 _Chapter 2_

Wait. _What?_

Castle froze and he could swear his heart momentarily stopped, his lungs forgot how to work—hell, it felt as if the Earth stopped rotating, suspended in motion, for an endless second as her sleepy, slurred murmur echoed over and over in his head.

Had she really just said _that_? The syllables—well, one syllable had been what it had really sounded like—had been too unclear, mumbled and quiet, for him to be sure. He knew what he wanted her to have said but that was the problem, wasn't it? He wanted to hear it too much, had been dreaming about hearing those words for what felt like years now, so it was possible his mind was playing tricks on him, his imagination getting the better of him.

He let out a shaky breath. No, no, he didn't want to let himself believe it, not now, not yet. Even if Kate Beckett was lying naked beside him in his bed—even if she had just given him the hottest experience of his life—he couldn't quite let himself believe that everything he'd been dreaming of for months, if not years, was finally coming true.

He had already believed, had hoped, for so many months only to have everything come crashing down around him just days ago and it had devastated him—and even now, he was afraid to trust so fully again. Because he honestly wasn't sure his fragile, vulnerable heart would ever be able to recover from another blow.

And she had been drunk tonight. More drunk than he'd ever seen or imagined Beckett as being. Her words hadn't been slurred but her actions had been sloppy, uncoordinated, in a way that was worlds removed from the controlled grace of Beckett's usual movements—and what she'd said had not sounded like her either. More Kate than Detective Beckett.

She hadn't been so drunk as not to know what she was doing, but he of all people knew just how much alcohol diminished people's ability to make good decisions. His own misbegotten past furnished more than one example of what alcohol could lead to—and the regret the next morning.

And that was the problem. Alcohol made people do—and say—things they wouldn't normally do or say when they were sober.

He didn't really believe that she would classify this as a drunken one night stand—nothing he knew of Beckett indicated that she went in for those—but he couldn't quite trust that this was really the start of, well, _them_ , diving into it as she had once put it.

She'd asked him to make love to her and the way she'd looked at him had painful hope surging in his chest—and yet, and yet… He didn't know how to trust that because he was so used to seeing the way she looked at him as love—and she'd still lied to him for months—and he didn't know anymore how much of what he saw in her eyes was real and how much of it was a mirage, a vision of an oasis to a parched man in a desert.

And if he let himself believe—and she regretted any of tonight's actions… He flinched, sucking in a sharp breath at the near-physical pain at the mere thought.

No, he couldn't let himself trust again, not yet. He needed to be cautious, try to protect his own heart, to the extent he could—which was pathetically little. He knew that. He had no defenses where Beckett was concerned.

All he could do—again, still—was hope, a tentative, more cautious hope but at least, it was hope, much better than the crushing despair of the last two weeks. Of this evening, after he'd seen Jacinda off and returned home alone to face the brutal fact that none of his usual coping mechanisms were helping. Jetting off to Vegas and losing a lot of money at poker and drinking too much alcohol hadn't made him feel any better. Flirting with Jacinda had not done anything to make him forget Beckett—if anything, it had only made everything worse because he spent every minute comparing Jacinda to Beckett, hating himself for it, trying not to think it, but then inevitably making more comparisons, only for the cycle to repeat itself. And it hadn't helped that he knew Jacinda was exactly the type of woman he would have been all over if he'd met her a few years ago—pretty, hot, smart enough, fun and flirty. Now, flirting with Jacinda had been forced, by rote—and even so, he'd felt stupidly guilty about it. As if even flirting with one woman while in love with another was cheating.

Tonight, he'd accepted that he just couldn't do this anymore, couldn't somehow forget or distract himself from his heartbreak, couldn't keep on working with Beckett. He'd been steeling himself to stop going into the precinct, say his final goodbyes.

But then she had come to him—and Beckett didn't generally come over unannounced and not when they didn't have an active case. She had come to him and said she missed him (he still didn't get that) and then… Oh god and then… He'd thought he'd known, after nearly four years, just how jaw-clenchingly sexy Kate Beckett could be but it turned out he'd had no idea. No idea how… incredibly hot her mouth was, how… wickedly talented her tongue was. He was pretty sure the words hadn't been invented yet to do justice to her—but he could happily spend the rest of his life trying to come up with words to do so. He'd had some very vivid fantasies about Beckett over the years but his imagination had obviously failed him because all his fantasies hadn't even come close to the reality.

She let out a soft sighing breath, twitching a little in her sleep, and he stared, riveted, mesmerized, by the amazing sight of Kate Beckett sleeping in his bed.

He never wanted to move again, never ever wanted to leave his bed, at least not as long as she was in it with him—oh, wait—he abruptly remembered that his clothes were still out in the front room. Oh crap. He was going to need to get out of bed and retrieve them because he absolutely, positively did not need either his mother or his daughter seeing the obvious evidence of what he and Kate had just done.

It took more strength of will than it should have, considering everything, but Castle managed to force his reluctant limbs to cooperate and slid carefully out of his bed, trying not to disturb Kate. He held his breath as she stirred, the faintest of frowns flitting across her face, but after a moment, it dissipated and she only turned her face deeper into her pillow and slept on.

He quickly shrugged into his robe and then hurriedly exited his bedroom, making a bee line for his clothes scattered around the couch—and tried very hard not to immediately picture Kate kneeling on the floor in front of it. Hastily, he retrieved his pajamas and his boxers, hanging them over his arm.

He turned to return to his bedroom but then paused and turned around to head to the kitchen first to get a glass of water. She was going to need it. Armed with that and some aspirin, he returned to his bedroom, turning off all the lights in the front before he did so, except for the one in the kitchen he left on, for whenever his mother returned from wherever she was.

She hadn't stirred (well, okay, he'd been gone little more than a minute) and he dumped his pajamas on a chair and then carefully placed the glass of water and aspirin on the nightstand on her side of the bed.

Wait, what? Her side of the bed? Already?

Yeah, he was doomed.

A conclusion that was reinforced when he slid back into bed (on his side—god help him) and carefully curled his body around her, pulling the covers over them both—and just the simple act of getting into bed next to Beckett felt like coming home.

He let his eyes roam over her so familiar features, except it wasn't that familiar either, because he'd never seen Beckett sleeping before, never seen her like this, with her expression so unguarded and peaceful. Aside from anything else, it was amazing to think that Kate Beckett trusted him enough to sleep beside him.

And god, she was gorgeous. Well, he'd always known that but still, now, he could indulge himself with gazing at her and not needing to try to hide it. He heard her voice in his mind, tartly telling him that staring was creepy, but really, how was he supposed to help it? It simply wasn't fair to be so gorgeous and not allow him to stare. Gorgeous and also adorable.

His eyes traced her features and it occurred to him that he wanted to trace her features with his lips too, kiss not just her mouth but her nose, those marvelous cheekbones of hers, those eyebrows she quirked at him when she was teasing, the soft skin just in front of her ear lobe.

She stirred a little restlessly and he belatedly realized that the light might be disturbing her and reluctantly decided to forego his staring, turning the light off and settling more comfortably beside her.

He didn't want to fall asleep, didn't want to miss a single minute of sharing a bed with Kate Beckett, but he hadn't been sleeping well lately and the next thing he knew, he was abruptly waking up to the shift of the mattress as Beckett slid carefully out of bed.

Oh. She was awake.

His body tensed as if in preparation for a blow but he relaxed marginally as she only padded quietly into the bathroom. Okay, she hadn't hunted up her clothes. She wasn't leaving, at least not now.

He waited, feeling vaguely creepy about listening so carefully for the sound of the toilet flushing and then her washing her hands, and then he barely had time to shut his eyes, feigning sleep, and peeping out through the tiniest slit of his barely cracked eyelids before the door opened and he had to fight not to choke on air as for one second, she was silhouetted in the light from the bathroom in all her glorious nakedness.

She flicked off the light and he could no longer see anything of her except as a darker shadow as she returned to the bed. His heart seemed to lodge in his throat when she didn't immediately climb back under the covers, only perched on the edge. Was she about to try to get dressed, sneak out now, doing the walk of shame—he inwardly flinched.

He waited, hardly daring to breathe, as she drank some water and swallowed the aspirin with it, and then—ooh—and then, she slid back under the covers, close enough for him to feel the warmth from her body along his side. One hand crept across his chest in a delicate caress as she nuzzled a kiss to his shoulder.

He didn't dare to move, was frozen in place. Oh god oh god, was she really—was this really happening? Again? When she wasn't—could not possibly be drunk still?

She shifted closer until the lithe length of her was pressed against him, leaning in to feather her lips against his jaw while her fingers tripped more daringly across his chest, tracing his pectorals and then moving on to trace a delicate fingertip around his nipple.

He squeezed his eyes shut and clamped his lips closed around the moan that wanted to escape.

And then she pinched his nipple, just hard enough to be on the right side of pain, and he jerked, his pretense of sleep lost in an instant as he half-reared up off the bed in surprise.

She snickered a little against his shoulder. "I knew you were awake, Castle."

Smug woman—evil, smug woman. He should have known she would realize that, detective and all.

"Okay, you got me."

"Hmm, so I do," she drawled, her hand skimming down, down to flutter over the part of his body that was obviously awake now too. "And now that I've got you, what should I do with you?" she hummed teasingly. The humor, the teasing, in her voice went straight to his heart, setting off flares of hope even brighter than before. Hope that they could really do this, still be _them_ , Castle and Beckett, having fun in the way they'd used to before things had gone bad, and having more adult, intimate fun in bed too.

He bit back a groan and then—he couldn't quite believe he was doing this, part of his body shrieking at him—he grasped her wrist in his hand, pulling her hand away. "Wait, no, wait. We can't," he blurted out. Before they could do that, move on, he needed to know, needed to be sure.

"We… can't?" He could hear the confusion in her voice. "But we alr—"

"Not again," he clarified. "I can't… do this again until we talk."

She stilled. "Oh. Okay. I guess we do need to talk."

She didn't exactly sound eager but after a moment, she shifted away from him—thankfully, since having her pressed against him was not conducive to rational thought on his part.

He debated turning on his bedside lamp but after a moment, decided against it. He might want the light to allow him to see her but he had an idea that darkness—and the enforced intimacy of the hour and the location—might somehow make this conversation easier. Also, he wasn't exactly confident of his ability to focus and remain undistracted if he could actually see her, be reminded (as if he could forget) that Kate Beckett was naked in his bed.

He couldn't think of what to say to start this talk—bluntly asking 'why did you lie?' didn't seem like a good idea—and unsurprisingly, she didn't speak either. But after a long minute, he finally ventured, "How are you feeling?" It wasn't what they needed to talk about but it was a start, right?

"Not bad," she answered, her tone a little uncertain. "The water and the aspirin helped. Thanks."

"Partners, right?"

He hadn't meant it to be a question but it came out sounding more uncertain than he intended. And that was the problem, wasn't it? He hadn't really felt like her partner in two weeks, hadn't felt like her partner since the terrible moment of truth. He quickly slammed a door on the memory of that moment of hearing her admit the truth to a total stranger, a suspect in the bombing, when she'd had no compunction about lying to him. But he knew now he'd been wrong in what he'd thought, had to be have been wrong. "I think I made a mistake."

She sucked in her breath. "With… with Jacinda? But you said—"

"No!" he blurted out immediately. Whatever else, he couldn't have her thinking that. "Jacinda wasn't… I didn't—I just flirted with her, went on a couple dates, but it wasn't… anything."

"Oh. Okay." She didn't say anything more and he wondered if he was imagining the unspoken ' _good_ ,' the relief in her voice.

"I meant that I made a mistake in what I thought about… you," he clarified awkwardly.

"You made a mistake in… how you feel about me?" she faltered.

"No!" he burst out again. Oh god, he really was making a mess of this. They couldn't seem to talk to each other when it came to their relationship, kept talking at cross purposes.

He set his jaw. No more of this subtext or misunderstanding. Really. It was high time they learned to really talk to each other. And it was easier now because it no longer felt as if the ability of his heart to keep beating was at stake. _Time to man up, Rick._

It wasn't that she didn't care at all, wasn't that she only wanted him as a platonic friend and partner. They had shot well past platonic at warp speed and were never going to be able to be platonic again. She wanted him physically and she had to care about him, a lot, to seek him out the way she had, the hurt in her face when she'd thought he was with Jacinda. He just needed to know why she'd lied so he could understand and forgive her with his head and not just his heart.

"I made a mistake in what I assumed about how you felt. I just need to know… why didn't you tell me you remembered?" There, that was a somewhat softer way of asking why she'd lied.

"Oh." Her voice was small in a way he'd never expected to hear from her. "That's why you've been mad at me."

He bit back a sardonic snort and only affirmed, as unthreateningly as possible, "Yes, that's why."

"I'm sorry, Castle. I—I never meant to hurt you."

Again, he bit back the immediate, caustic response that came to his lips of ' _Too late for that._ ' Okay, so maybe he hadn't forgiven her even with his heart quite as much as he'd thought, was still harboring some lingering anger.

He heard a faint hitch in her breath and then she started, not quite fluently, but she was talking. "At first, I just… couldn't deal with it. Everything hurt too much and… it took everything I had to just… put one foot in front of the other, try to get through the day."

She paused and he tried not to wince at this description of her recovery, of all those terrible, long months of missing her, of desperately wanting to help her and not being able to do so. The tight knot of frustration inside him was familiar by now—why oh why could she not let him help her, why must she be so stubbornly independent—but he tried not to think about it. It wasn't as if this aspect of Beckett's personality was new to him and as long as she was willing to try to let him in going forward, he could deal with it.

"And since then, I've been trying to be better, putting in the work so I wouldn't be so… broken, could try to give you what you deserve."

"What _I_ deserve?" He felt as breathless as if her words had been a punch to the stomach. "Kate, no, you've always been enough, more than enough, for me. I just want _you_."

She made a sound that was like a sob and a laugh commingled. "That's good because I want you too."

"So when we talked on the swings months ago and you talked about the kind of relationship you want, you were talking about us?"

"God, Castle, I thought you were smarter than that. Of _course_ I was talking about us." And then she closed the distance between them, flinging an arm across his chest and pressing all sorts of deliciously naked skin against him as she scattered kisses to his chin, his cheek, wherever she could reach—and he abruptly decided that they'd done enough talking for now. Because really, what more did he need to know? She wanted to be with him, had been trying to get better for _him_ , and that was enough, that was everything.

He turned his head to catch her lips with his, softly, tenderly, or at least, it started out that way but they were naked and in bed together and the ever-present embers of lust flared up almost immediately and soft and tender just wasn't enough. He shifted, rolling onto his side, cupping her face in his hand as he deepened the kiss, nudging her mouth open with his tongue.

And she let him, no, more than let him, encouraged him, making a small soft sound in the back of her throat as she sucked his tongue deeper into her mouth, her tongue playing with his, twining around it in a way that was positively filthy.

She arched against him, one leg wrapping around his, and he knew she could feel him hard and heavy against her thigh and he broke the kiss on a groan. Fire was licking at his veins and he was more than ready to give in to the primal urges tugging at him but there was no way he wanted this to be over this quickly. No, there was so much more he wanted to do.

He let his lips wander over her features, learning them with his lips as he'd wanted to earlier, scattering kisses across her cheek to the tiny hollow before her ear, registering the sound of a breathy gasp—good to know, she liked that. He darted his tongue out against her ear lobe and then gently grazed it with his teeth, before moving on down the slope of her neck.

"Castl—ooh," she broke off, his name truncated on a moan and he bit back the smirk that wanted to escape. "Thought… mm… you wanted to talk," she panted, more teasingly than in real question.

"Talk later," he mumbled against her neck, repeating the swirl of his tongue over the spot on her neck that he'd already discovered made her moan.

Encouraged, emboldened, he trailed his lips lower, sucking gently at her pulse point and then lightly nipping at her collar bone. Her hands tangled in his hair, tugging just enough, and he obeyed the unspoken command, returning to kiss her mouth. It wasn't as if it was any hardship to kiss her, far, far from it. He would happily spend the rest of his life kissing Kate.

Even if his mouth was now (wonderfully) occupied, his hands could still wander and wander, they did, drifting down to lavish caresses on her body, re-learning every inch of her that he'd already explored and finding new spots to love. She gasped into his mouth and squirmed against him in an attempt to get closer and god, oh god, he loved this, loved how responsive she was, how eager. He'd always known they would be great together but even so, the reality of her was blazing all his wildest dreams into cinders.

He cupped, shaped her gorgeous breasts with his hands and she cried out, a sound that he swallowed with his mouth, his fingers playing with her taut nipples before lightly pinching them. And then he left off kissing her mouth to move down again, replacing his hand with his mouth, swirling his tongue around one nipple before capturing it with his lips, making her hands fly into his hair again, holding him in place, as she made a sound like a whimper.

Kate Beckett whimpered. And _he_ had done that.

So he did it again, this time to her other breast, only this time she gasped his name, her fingers tightening in his hair. Her hips were rocking urgently against him and he listened to the unspoken command, his hand cupping the center of her, and she almost bucked straight off the bed.

God, she was wet, so wet, and it was because of him.

Lust was licking at the base of his spine and he was almost shaking with the effort to keep from just sinking into her but he wanted, he _needed_ , to make her come first. He slid one finger inside her and she mewled, her hips arching into his hand.

"Castle," she gasped. "Oh. Oh please, Castle…"

He joined a second finger to the first, caressing her more deeply, more intimately, cataloguing her responses as he learned how to touch her. She was getting closer; he could feel it in the tightening of her inner muscles around his fingers, hear it in her quickened breaths, interspersed with little keening whimpers at every movement of his fingers. He deliberately rubbed his thumb in a purposeful swirl over her center and that was enough and she convulsed around his fingers with a choked cry of his name.

And he knew he was ruined. It wasn't exactly a surprise but he realized then and there that he never wanted to do this with anyone else ever again. Just Kate, only Kate, for the rest of his life.

He waited as she came down off her high, scattering light, undemanding kisses over her body, the curve of her waist, her stomach, the underside of her breast, random places on her body.

Her breath was still coming fast when she reached up to touch his chest, flattening her hand over it in a sweeping caress and then curving around his shoulder to push. "My turn," she breathed, the low huskiness of her tone sending a fresh jolt of arousal sizzling down every nerve of his body.

He took the hint and rolled over onto his back and before he could so much as gasp, she had moved to straddle his thighs, rising over him like some sort of sensual goddess, one that he could definitely worship. He could just make out the gleam of her naked skin in the darkness, the pale oval of her face, the slope of her shoulders, the curves of her breasts and waist. He was never ever going to get enough of seeing her like this.

Her hands first painted his chest and stomach with lazy strokes and then slowly moved downwards. Her fingers flitted lightly, teasingly, over the throbbing length of him, and then wrapped around him, stroking him, once, twice, three times.

"Oh god, Kate," he choked.

He felt the familiar tug, the coiling tension tightening, and she understood, leaving off her teasing and finally, finally, sinking onto him. He gave a choked cry and was peripherally aware of hearing a soft mewl from her at the sensation of her tight, wet warmth around him.

And then she was undulating her hips and he was thrusting up into her in tandem and god, how could they be this _good_ at this already, as if they'd been doing this for years...

"Cas—tle," she gasped, his name punctuated by a pant. "Oh. Oh god yes."

He was already close to his climax and he managed to rear up, his mouth closing around her nipple as he moved one hand to slip between her thighs, touching her where they were joined, and that did the trick and she came apart on a cry. "Oh, I love you."

What? The words pushed him over the edge and he fell back onto the bed, his own explosive climax thundering through him, as he gasped out her name, just her name, over and over again.

She collapsed on top of him and he managed to drag his arms up and around her, keeping her draped above him, although she showed no inclination to leave or move. She relaxed onto him, her head resting on his shoulder, her breath tickling his neck.

Heaven, this was heaven, he decided fuzzily, lying tangled up with Kate like this, in the golden afterglow, as their hearts slowed, their heated skin cooled.

He wasn't sure how long it was before some coherent thought returned, before he remembered. "Kate?" he murmured.

"Mm?"

"You really love me?" But even as he said it, he knew he was being stupid. She meant it. Of course she meant it. Some women might equate good (okay, amazing) sex with love but Kate Beckett wasn't that type. And Beckett didn't say anything easily, let alone something like this. Beckett protected her heart more safely than the Crown Jewels so if she said it, she really meant it. She loved him. She _loved_ him!

A faint species of tension returned to her lax form and then he felt her turn her head just enough to brush her lips against his neck. "Mm, give me a few minutes and I'll try to convince you some more."

He choked on a laugh. That hadn't been what he'd expected and he, at least, was going to need more than just a few minutes, but oh, he was really, really into this Kate, all teasing and sexy (and naked—had he mentioned naked?) in his bed.

Her lips curved into a slight smile—he felt it against his skin and in spite of the fact that he was quite definitely sated, he felt a little tingle of desire that was the predecessor to arousal. And then he somehow sensed her shift in mood as she sobered, lifting her head to dust kisses to his ear, his jaw. "I'm sorry I made you doubt me," she whispered.

"It's okay," he assured her automatically and it was really true. There was no more anger or hurt or regret and it wasn't only because with her nakedness lying draped over him, he wasn't sure he was capable of feeling anything approaching a negative emotion. She had healed his heart. He felt hope and happiness filling his chest—more than that, he felt trust again. Trust, not just in her, but in _them_. "We're here now and this was worth the wait. And Kate, I love you too."

She lifted her head so he could see the flash of her smile in the darkness. "Good."

A crack of delighted laughter escaped him. Now she sounded more like the Beckett he knew and loved. "You've got me, Beckett."

She laughed—no, she _giggled_ —wow, Kate Beckett was giggling in his bed—and kissed his chin and then his mouth, lightly. "Mm, fine, I think I'll keep you."

He faked a gasp but couldn't control his grin. "You only think you'll keep me? What do I need to do to make you certain?"

She pretended to think about it. "Keep bringing me coffee."

He laughed softly. "It's a deal."

"It's a deal," she echoed. "My coffee and my Castle."

Her Castle, just as she was his Beckett—yeah, he liked the sound of that.

And the promise was sealed with a kiss.

 _~The End~_

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A/N 2: Thank you, as always, to everyone who's read, reviewed, followed, or added this fic to their Favorites, especially the Guest reviewers I can't thank directly.


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